


Like a Fox to a Snare

by Anonymous



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcoholic Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Whump, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Others, Booker's past in the army, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, First Time, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Shame, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27117424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "That’s horrible,” Nile says softly, melancholic, empathetic, and all of the things that Booker is incapable of feeling right now, thanks to the alcohol pleasantly burning its way through his bloodstream.“I’m so sorry, Booker,” she says, reaching out for him.But his right hand is on the bottle neck and his left hand is on his glass, and he can not bring himself to let those things go.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80
Collections: Anonymous





	Like a Fox to a Snare

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! If you didn't read the tags this fic contains explicit depiction of rape and sexual violence which may be triggering to some readers! So please proceed with caution!
> 
> This is for the kink meme prompt found at 
> 
> https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5552.html?thread=1854384#cmt1854384
> 
> Also! Just as a little before note, this fic isn't meant to be a social commentary on anything w/in the Old Guard fandom or on who the character is.
> 
> Thx!

The ugliness of humanity is no longer a surprise after so many years spent living, and Booker knows this.

He _knows_ that the Old Guard would never judge him for it. Not for this, Never this. But still, he can not voice it. He can not birth the words of his first death like how Athena was born from Zeus’s head, fully formed, aching from the rawness of life 

No. Booker can not say it. His throat closes up every single time he thinks that he is even close to doing so.

Like a noose squeezing tight on his larynx.

So, when the subject of _‘first deaths’_ reaches the topic of conversation due to Nile’s curiosity and her painful youth, he drinks an entire bottle of _cognac_ before saying “I was hung for desertion,” with a cold and detached air about him that makes him stick out like a sore thumb amongst the table of congeniality. “I hung for three days until the army moved on," he says, and that is it. 

That is all that he offers, never once mentioning the crows feasting on his eyes or the rocks haphazardly throw at his hanging body from a soldier’s sheer boredom, or the screams that he held until the moment it was free to do so.

Most importantly, above all else, he does not tell them about the events leading up to his execution, or even the rape, because the truth about Booker’s death, his deepest and darkest shame, is not that he died a deserter and a coward in the eyes of his nation.

It is the fact that while he was beaten down and torn apart, fucked open and bleeding in the muddied slush of ice, hands bound behind his back and choking from a face shoved deep into the bloodied snow with a boot pressing down hard against his head, he had felt the subtle and nauseous stirrings of _arousal_ in his belly that rose up like a hand from hell. 

It was a phantom caress that tugged and guided him into mortifying stiffness despite the degradation and the fear that sent his heart thrumming in panic, like a fox caught in a snare, only the fox was far too tired now, to gnaw and sever its limbs free. 

It had been going on for an hour and he supposes, that after enough time has come to pass, even a fox will find comfort in the snare.

 _At least I am face-down,_ Booker thinks with sudden clarity that darts out from the fog of his mind. At least they can not see the way his own body is betraying him, or the tears and the snot pouring down his face in a way that is so unbecoming of a soldier. It is nearly as disgraceful as desertion. But then, the man behind him, cradling his hips in a bruising and clawing grip, is flipping him over.

“A coward _and_ a sodomite,” the man thrusting into him laughs.

The morbid crew of on-lookers joins in with a chorus of name-calling and guffaws. Booker’s eyes are blurry and he can not make out the details of their faces but he knows that some of them, if not most of them, were on the brink of running away moments before this morbid display.

He wonders if-

The boot on the back of his head comes down with a swift kick to his face.

It sends him to the farthest corners of his mind and for a second, a brief and blissful second, he is back at home in his mother’s cottage.

 _There is a pie cooling on the table and the smell of peaches ripe for the picking. The cloying summer heat of_ \- he is back on his knees again, boot pressing down at his shoulders and his hips arching up for the next soldier who wishes to give what deserters like him deserve.

Booker looks down at himself and does not recognize his body or the cock that is still standing hard at attention all red and horrifying.

For a moment his stomach curls in on itself and Booker gags but there is nothing inside of his belly to regurgitate. 

There hasn’t been for a while, now.

“That’s horrible,” Nile says, softly, melancholic, empathetic, and all of the things that Booker is incapable of feeling right now, thanks to the alcohol pleasantly burning its way through his bloodstream.

“I’m so sorry, Booker,” she says, reaching out for him.

But his right hand is on the bottle neck and his left hand is on his glass, and he can not bring himself to let those things go. He can not bring himself to forget and he can not bring himself to _speak_ anything other than “ _Thanks,”_ in a gruff voice that sounds like it has been choked and crushed by a noose for centuries.

Booker drinks the rest of his glass with a far off look on his face while Andy, Nicky and Joe, continue telling stories, more lighthearted, thankfully, less morbid.

Funny, even.


End file.
